A Temporary Safety
by StormInMyHeart
Summary: My first attempt at a casefic (sort of) - Set Season 10, Post Shiva. AU post Shiva.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Work in progress - will post as I finish

_They that can give up essential liberty to obtain_

_a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety._

Benjamin Franklin

:: :: ::

Trust me on this, being cooped up with Ziva David in a safe house is nothing like I'd fantasized it would be.

It hasn't helped that Gibbs has pretty much come and gone as he's pleased. While he's been placed under guard, he's steadfastly insisted that Bodner's assassins weren't going to interfere with *his* life. Unfortunately, when Ziva expressed a similar sentiment, even more forcibly, he completely shot her down. He flat out told her she could do anything that needed to be done at a safe distance from both the Navy Yard and our apartments.

My apartment is off limits to Ziva, because Bodner had already demonstrated that he knows how to find her there. And Gibb's declared it off limits for me, as well, until Bodner's taken care of.

Well, Gibbs is the Team Leader, and apparently Ziva wants to stay at NCIS, so she really can't take out all of her frustrations on him. Gee, guess who that left?

McGee has been conspicuous only in his absence from the safe house, although I'm sure Gibbs has told him which of the NCIS safe houses we're staying in. Tim calls with stuff, and emails and faxes paperwork for her to look at, several times a day. But according to Ziva, he's ignoring her emails unless they are strictly within the parameters set by our fearless leader.

Initially, the Boss told me that I could run everything I needed to right from here, too. What a joke. He's called me into the Navy Yard three times so far this week, and after the second nights' 'welcome home' reception, I'm jumping at every chance he gives me to get the hell away from here. Despite Bodner's tracking Ziva to my apartment before, I don't think I was ever one of his targets – makes for a nice change.

Gibbs has also arranged for McGee to pull every damned MCRT cold case file that needed updating, just to give Ziva something constructive to work on. We've pretty much accepted that Ames had been going primarily for Eli, and secondarily for Ziva, and that Jackie and Leon Vance were just collateral damage; either that, or Roland Ames was just dumber than shit.

I'd been to Vance's house, moments after the shooting, and there was no way Ames couldn't have seen exactly who he'd been shooting at through the huge plate glass windows in the dining room. And why the hell would anyone deliberately shoot Jackie Vance? And if his aim was that erratic, how the hell he missed the Director is beyond my comprehension.

Damn it, I'm really going to miss Mrs. Vance. She was one of the things that kept the Director grounded, and she frequently seemed to help mellow his temper. And as someone who's been on the receiving end of his anger more than a time or two, her interference was greatly appreciated. I figure I owe her enough to help find her murderer, even without a personal stake in the endgame.

I got to help canvas Ziva's neighbors, when one of Bodner's goons was spotted at Dulles on a security tape; Ziva got to stay at the safe house. Yet another bone of contention she's using to build her skeleton of rage against me.

We're pretty much at a dead end for the moment, with what little evidence we have. We still haven't found the car that was used to try and ambush Gibbs. The license plates were stolen, of course, and the owner, a seventy-five year old retired pipe fitter, isn't a suspect. But it's a lead we're still trying to track down, to cover all of our bases.

Ziva never took me up on my offer to let her use my credit card over the Internet to expand her currently limited wardrobe. Instead, she called Abby, who went out and bought her a bunch of stuff. Gibbs insisted that it come out of the MCRT operating budget, and McGee arranged for the stuff to be delivered. I'd really looked forward to looking over Ziva's shoulder while she was shopping, and making a few 'suggestions.' Never happened.

The first day at the safe house, the three of us spent catching up on sleep; I didn't even bother to check out the rest of the two-story house. It's a nice location, on the edge of National marshland, with no neighbor within a mile in any direction. Gibbs didn't even complain, although the second day there he made his first foray out with his bodyguard and I spent my first day alone in the house with a pissed-off Ziva.

After checking emails and reading reports, I finally took refuge in the kitchen and cooked Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner. Gibbs showed up at ten o'clock that night, having completely missed the oh-so-stimulating dinner conversation between Ziva, the two FBI guards, and myself. Of course, you really had to be into NASCAR to take part in the conversation. Evidently, another thing Ziva and I share – we both hate the sport. At least I do. I assumed Ziva did, too, since she didn't say a word while Agents Dickerson and Cramer waxed poetic on Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s chances this year.

Real intel started to dribble in on day three of our confinement, and I was immensely grateful that the Boss decided that he needed me down in the Navy Yard that day. Of course, I paid in full for my escape later that night.

I'd guilted Gibbs into coming back with me, determined not to face another Ninja attack on my own. We even made the bodyguards stop and pick up dinner. Of course, it turned out Ziva had cooked, and if it hadn't been for Gibbs, no one would have talked to me at all that night. Hey, he was all for take out, too, so why did I get all the blame?

When the Boss announced this morning that he was going into work, and then he'd be returning to his house in Alexandria, never to return here again, I scrambled to make my own temporary escape plans.

The front door had barely slammed shut behind Gibbs when Ziva was at my bedroom door. I was at the dresser, knotting my tie. The look on her face was inscrutable.

"So, you will find a way to go home, too, I suppose." Her tone was flat, displaying absolutely no emotion.

"That what you want, Ziva?" I donned my vest and began to button it up. I looked at her in the mirror, and watched as she reached for my jacket. She was wearing jeans and a tee shirt, her hair was brushed back off of her face with a headband, still damp from her shower. She even wore a little makeup. If I had time, I could almost conjure up some bizarre 1950s Donna Reed scenario, where she was my loving wife, seeing me off to work. Oh, yeah, not in this or any other lifetime. Not even in my weirdest dreams.

When Ziva David wants something, she attacks the problem just like it's a mission or an investigation. And she's learned a lot over the past few years about acting independently, and when to ask for help. This time, she'd been ordered - flat out ordered - by Gibbs to stay put at the safe house.

"I don't need to spend my time worrying about you, Agent David. You can sit here and dig through cold case files as easily as you can at the office. You've got your phone, a laptop, and a fax machine. Besides, you haven't taken a real vacation in more than a year. Take a few walks, lie on the deck, whatever - but you will not leave the grounds unless either the Navy, CIA, or FBI needs you to. Do I make myself clear, Agent David?"

This had been the real 'Don't Fuck With Me' Gibbs, and she knew it. She also knew there was no way that she could talk McGee into telling her that he needed her help with anything. He apparently doesn't have a death wish. Unlike yours truly.

Ziva had already alienated all three shifts of guards, and the FBI investigators don't play nice with the other kids, and are all pretty much misanthropes. So, again, that left me.

As she held my suit jacket up for me, I held her gaze in the mirror. To give her credit, it wasn't a seductive gaze.

"What I want, Tony, is to get out of here and do something useful. I want to try and figure out why the hell Bodner wants me dead. So, please. Come up with something for me to do – something real. I know I have to go through the cold case files. But, damn it, I have been been stuck here for a week. I don't need to go into NCIS, but... please, help me out here."

She didn't even bother to smooth the jacket over my shoulders. She was making it very clear that she wants my help as a professional and as her partner, and that she doesn't expect to pay for that with sex.

And, Jesus, that little speech must have cost her pride plenty. Unconsciously, I rub the back of my head, already feeling phantom headslaps. Frankly, I think Gibbs is being chauvinistic in his protection of her, but I certainly don't want her hurt, either.

I don't answer her, but move around her, very careful not to touch her. I don't want her thinking that I'd settle for that anyway. Over the last year or so, the idea has finally worked its way into some small corner of my brain that I really would like Ziva David in my bed, and in my life – not out of gratitude, or spite aimed at Gibbs, or out of sheer boredom, but because *she* wants to be there. And that's probably not gonna happen without a whole lot of work on my part. I've decided I'm willing to do it, but not right now. Right now, this is just business.

I find my cell phone and punch in a name. "Hey, McGee, it's me. Ziva and I are going out to check on some... stuff."

McGee isn't at all happy about my idea. "The Boss isn't going to like that."

"Yeah, yeah. Just call and arrange for more PSD. Our guys, not the FBI. We're going down to talk to the FBI at the Hoover. Fornell said he needed to talk to her, anyway."

"What about Gibbs?" McGee whined.

I silently swallow, knowing that I'll be facing the wrath of Gibbs later, and shoot a quick look at Ziva. "I'll handle Gibbs." I close my phone and glare at her. "Okay, you've got fifteen minutes before I walk out that door, Agent David. I'm having one cup of coffee..." The rest of my speech is wasted – she's already closed the door behind her on the way to get changed.

:: :: ::


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone dies alone. I've watched too many people die. Too many friends. Too much family. And maybe even too many enemies.

I sigh and take a swallow of the bourbon in my glass, setting it back down on the kitchen table.

I'm distracted from my melancholy by a loud voice.

I just shake my head as I see David snarl at DiNozzo again; he's getting both angrier and and more controlled by the moment. But I also notice that his jeans seem to be fitting just a little tighter, too. I just hope that whatever room they finally end up in is lead-lined, because the ultimate fall-out - good or bad - is likely to be nuclear. And if it's tonight, I hope it's sound-proofed, as well.

I probably should have just let them get it all out of their system eight years ago. If they'd slept together then, by now, they'd probably either be completely indifferent to each other's presence - or married with half a dozen kids. Either way, they'd be a whole lot easier to work with.

I'll say one thing for DiNozzo and David, though: when the shit hits the fan, they don't try and duck, and everything personal is put to the side.

And while I certainly didn't welcome the circumstances that led to it, it's good to see David letting her inner bitch out to play again.

For so long, she's hidden away her wild side. Somalia and the aftermath did a number on her, that's for sure. Maybe she felt she had to keep that untamed side of her completely under control, or risk losing any control at all. It's just too bad she hasn't found any balance between control and mayhem. Just like work and home, it works out better in the long run if they're equal parts of your life.

I take another, longer sip on my bourbon and inwardly sigh. I wonder when I'll get back to my basement and my boat.

This situation with Ilan Bodner has all the makings of a monumental inter-departmental fuck-up, and, to be honest, I don't know if we're going to be able to keep Ziva alive and safe until that bastard's dead and buried.

I don't know that we'll ever really know what motivated Bodner - perhaps some sort of sick pseudo-sibling rivalry for Eli David's love and attention - but all the intel we have on the hitman he's contracted isn't comforting. The Cougar has an impressive record of kills, and an even more impressive price tag. Fornell's also told me that this is the first time he's ever been contracted for a hit on US soil - his usual stomping ground being Europe and the Middle East. The FBI and the CIA are working closely with Interpol on this one, as mandated by the Homeland Security Secretary, but I've made sure that NCIS has been kept in the loop, too. After all, this has affected our people, too, on the most basic level.

Luckily, the failed car ambush on me a week ago seems now to be unrelated. Apparently is was just another disgruntled perp that I'd had a hand in putting away. Since that's the case, I think I'll be able to justify getting my ass out of here and head back home tomorrow.

I spare a sympathetic thought for Dinozzo, at what he's like to have to put up with after I leave. He's got a lot of patience, though - but, I suspect that, one of these days David's going to push him too far, and he'll either knock her back on the floor with his words, or fuck her senseless. I just hope it's not today.


	3. Chapter 3

I still am not sure why Tony agreed to bring me with him today. Gibbs is fucking pissed, maybe more pissed than I've ever seen him before. Maybe Tony just wanted to get back at Gibbs a little for sticking him with the queen bitch of NCIS.

I am myself angry beyond words at this whole situation. I am so angry at Gibbs for once again relegating me to the sidelines like some damsel in distress that the thought of applying for a transfer to another agency has actually crossed my mind. In my mind, I played a scene with Gibbs over and over in my head, trying to imagine him apologizing abjectly, telling me what a valued member of the team I am. What can I say? I have been really bored.

While this is not the first time I have sat for hours on end, going over files and reports, I have never had to spend twelve hours a day doing nothing else. I need to feel as if I am doing something useful, that I am contributing to the hunt for my father's murderer. I need to prove to myself that I have not just wasted seven days of my life on busy work better performed by probationary agents.

Gibbs has come and gone as he likes; Tony has been out in the field several times; and I have been stuck here in this damned safe house acting like some twenty-first century version of June Cleaver. Despite my rage at the situation, I acknowledge that I probably should not have thrown the plate of lamb chops at Tony's head when he – no, be honest, he and Gibbs – brought take out that second night we were stuck here.

I glance over at him, sitting at the wheel of his Mustang. If I were to glance in the rearview mirror, I would see the black sedan trailing us, filled with two NCIS agents as protection. There's a driver and a second agent acting as my bodyguard in the front. There have been no incidents, whatsoever, a fact which continues to fuel my rage at Gibbs' restrictions.

Taking advantage of my temporary freedom, we've been to the Hoover Building to talk with Fornell, and then out to Quantico to one of the FBI Labs; I have talked to countless analysts, each one with their own pet theory to promote. From what I have seen, there is little real information to be gleaned from the evidence that has been collected.

The various analysts and scientists threw their questions and theories at me, and I gave them the little information I could about Ilan Bodner and his methods that I had gathered from personal knowledge and past contacts at Mossad. They carefully made notes, and I know they will look into them... someday. This was just the boost my already battered self-esteem needed today.

"I need to stop and talk to Gavvy, if we have time. She's got a couple of reports we probably ought to see." Tony looked over at me, as we pulled up at a traffic signal.

"Gavriela Aden? I didn't know you knew her well enough to call her Gavvy." Something niggles in my gut, and I try to tell myself it is not a twinge of jealousy. "Do you?"

"About as well as I know any of our foreign contact, Ziva." He looked out his side window, instead of at me, and I know right then and there that he is lying to me.

"What did you do, Tony? Wine her and dine her, then take her to bed so you could get information?" I accuse him. A flush covers his cheeks, and I know from that reaction that I have scored a direct hit. "You son of a bitch!"

"Yes, Ziva, I've taken her to dinner a couple of times when she's been in DC. She brought me information that I could - and would - have asked you to get for me, but frankly, she was more pleasant company. For your information, it never occurred to either of us to take it further. She was lonely, and you weren't particularly friendly to her."

"There is not much there to be fond of, Tony!" Can we push each other buttons, or not? "She is a conniving, deceitful, bitch - a suckup." I force myself to stop my outburst.

He just looks at me, but somehow refrains from making any comments about me being jealous.

I finally pull myself out of my funk, and realize that we're at the Navy Yard. The car pulls through the guarded entrance, and, for the first time since I got back from Israel, I feel completely safe and at home. When we stop outside the main doors, Tony bolts out of the car. "I'll just be a minute," he throws at me as the door slams shut. Fat chance, DiNozzo. I open my door and follow him.


	4. Intermezzo 01

This job is going to be much easier than I had thought it would be. I have a team in place, just waiting for me to give them the signal. They're expendable, and I will not suffer any pangs of conscience should one or more of them die for me.

The Cougar identity is perhaps a bit whimsical, but it has never kept me from doing my job, and doing it very well, indeed. And that identity has allowed me to keep doing my other job, as well.

Ilan Bodner is an obsessive fool, but I am sure that I can manage him - he is psychotic, but smart enough to understand that it may take a while to finish the job correctly, so he will be patient, for now.

As far as my dupe is concerned? Perhaps I will have fun this mission, for a change. Once I take care of the bitch that is my target, that is. And if Very Special Agent DiNozzo tries to get in my way, I'll kill him, too. Just for fun.


	5. Chapter 4

I can't believe the Intel we're finally receiving. Thanks in no small part to our unformant from Israel, Gavriela Adel. She's been instrumental in getting us much needed information on Ilan Bodner and on The Cougar. And delivered it here in DC, for a change.

Frankly, up until today, it's all been hints and rumors, and wild ones at that. What we know about The Cougar is still pretty sketchy at best, except for the fact that he's one of the most successful free-lance hitmen currently on the job. He seems to have confirmed hits in damned near every European country, and he's been credited with causing the political instability that's led to the overthrow of no less than three governments through his targeted kills. But we still don't have a clue what The Cougar looks life, or what we should be looking for.

I knew the shit would hit the fan in a big way with Gibbs, once he found out about Tony taking Ziva with him today. Gibbs has been in a foul mood ever since Eli David's death - anything that upsets the applecart of his little world tends to send him off balance, and threats to one or more of his team definitely sends apples rolling.

But knowing a little about how Tony feels about our female teammate - I was there through the whole Summer of 2009, after all - I can understand his desire to give her what she wants, and undoubtedly needs after a week being cooped up in that Maryland safe house. The constant stream of emails, texts, and phone calls have clued me in to her rising level and frustration and anger, so I can just imagine what the fall-out must be for Tony, having to share close quarters with our resident Israeli-American tigress. But knowing that a full-scale ass-chewing will be the end result of his actions probably should have made him think twice, in this instance.

The second the two of them hit the floor of the squad room, Gibbs was on a roll and DiNozzo was on the defensive. The Boss pushed Tony back into the elevator, and before the door even finished closing, you could hear both of them yelling, if not exactly what was being yelled. Gibbs just likes to yell, in general, and Tony, being Italian, and being Tony, yells when he gets excited, so some yelling is to be expected.

Ziva's undoubtedly next on Gibbs' list - after all, I'm sure that she instigated the transgression, as usual. But knowing Gibbs, he'll let her off a lot more lightly than he will Tony. After all, Gibbs is pretty much a chauvinist, despite any evidence to the contrary that Ziva could be categorized as a member of the weaker sex.

Gibbs finally calmed down and stopped yelling and head-slapping, at least long enough to make use of Tony and Ziva to go over some of the new intel on Bodner and The Cougar. The current thinking is that Bodner may be in South America, possibly Argentina. I honestly think Bodner must be psycho - what possible reason does he have to continue to target Ziva? She holds no power in Israel, or within Mossad, and why hate her for being Eli David's daughter - that was a position in life that doesn't seem to have been to her advantage.

Once the dust has settled between Gibbs, Tony, and Ziva regarding her unauthorized absence from the safe house, the tension levels in MCRT drop dramatically. But for some reason, they skyrocket again when Gavvy shows up. I know that she and Tony only tolerate each other for professional reasons, but I'm not sure why Ziva and she don't get along - after all, they have quite a bit in common, besides a common heritage. And Abby seems to taken an instant dislike to Gavvy, too.

I'm not sure how she did it, but despite the threats to some of our colleagues, and the general mayhem which is life as usual for the MCRT Team, Abby's able to convince Gibbs to let everyone out of their cages for one night, to help celebrate her upcoming fortieth birthday. Since Tony's already broken Gibb's protocols and taken Ziva with him to FBI this afternoon, Gibb's has relented and agreed to include the two of them in the impromptu plans. I suspect that Gibb will head-slap the two of them into next week before the night's over, if the grumbling I heard Gibbs doing at his desk is any predictor of the future.

While it is a risk, of sorts, the party was impromptu, and limited to NCIS personnel, and at a venue we don't generally frequent. It would be a miracle if The Cougar or one of Bodner's other minions could set up a hit this quickly.

There's a decent sized crowd at the bar Abby's chosen - enough people to make dancing seem fun instead of just awkward, but not so many that we couldn't keep a weather eye on everybody, alert for any threats.

Tony's Italian suit, despite how long the evening's gone on, still looks crisp and clean. I guess an investment in good tailoring is worth the money, when it comes down to it. And I'll tell you this - I'd pay good money to him for dancing lessons. He and Ziva have danced to every era of music that the DJ has thrown out tonight, and have looked good going it. But oddly enough, it doesn't really look like they're having a very good time. It's more like a pissing contest between the two of them.

Ziva and I danced once, and Ducky even attempted a slow tango with her, while Tony danced with Abby. But they keep going back to each other. I think we all know, but refuse to publicly acknowledge, that the two of them have some connection that we can only guess at, but never fully understand. On some level, it's destructive, and I sometimes wish they'd get whatever it is out of their systems and just move on. But it does make them work together incredibly well, so who am I to make judgments?

The dance floor had been crowded earlier, but it's beginning to thin out some when Ziva and Tony, and Jimmy and Abby, try the Jumpin' Jive. Abby looked rather disappointed at Jimmy's oddly conservative style, but they didn't last long on the floor. Halfway through the number, almost everyone stopped to just watch Ziva and Tony.

Damn, to watch the two of them, you'd think they'd been dancing together for years. And the way he tossed her in that short, tight-fitting dress Abby had loaned her, I half expected to see some serious skin on the dance floor. Then, when it was over, you could feel the anger radiate off of her from all the way across the dance floor. She glared at him, then stomped off to the ladies' room - and not to fix her hair, either. She must have made some kind of plan while she was in there, too, because when she came out, she had an odd little smile on her face and that's when things really began to heat up between the two of them.

Gavriela and I danced a slow number. Ziva and Tony were moving around the dance floor with us, about three couples away, and I could sense that something unspoken was going on between them. Gavvy and I returned to our table when that dance ended, and while the smoky strains of Etta James' At Last play we discuss leaving here and finding another club. "Come on, Timmy," Gavvy begged begged, "Show me what else DC has to offer."

Gibbs declines, saying he has a date with his bourbon and his boat, and Ducky bravely offers the comment that most of us have been thinking. "I don't think Ziva and Tony are quite ready to leave yet."

The whole table glances in the direction he's gestured, and we all stand there, a little overwhelmed at the sight. There on the dance floor, in front of God and Gibbs, the two of them stand - barely. I'm wondering where all the anger and hostility disappeared to in the past fifteen minutes, because that's not kissing we're witnessing. That's making love.

Her hands rest lightly on his chest and his hands are gripping her at the waist. But their lips are fused and you really can't tell where one of them ends and the other one begins. Hell, my own cock twitches just a little while watching the two of them kiss. I'm not sure exactly what Ziva had originally planned for tonight when she came out of that bathroom, but I'd bet good money it wasn't anything like this.


	6. Chapter 5

By the time the DJ put on 'At Last' by Etta James, I'd reached the end of my endurance. I'd put up with the snarks and the sarcasm and the outright hostility for a week, and now it was 'Kiss or Kill.'

I adore Etta James. Her voice is raw and soulful, and you can just feel the promise and the heartbreak in her voice. I probably should have left the dance floor the second I recognized the lush violin strains.

But as the first words of the song began, all of Ziva's hostility seemed to melt away, and she just melted into my arms. She embraced me, with her hands resting on my hips, and her soft lips against my neck. She rubbed herself up against me, and all my attempts to summon thoughts of case files and expense reports couldn't keep my cock from acknowledging her.

Right there in the middle of the dance floor, we made slow steady love, in front of some of the most important people in out lives. I could hear her breath devolve into slow, soft pants. The thundering of her heartbeat matched mine, and, as the song came to an end, I pulled back and stared into her eyes.

I couldn't help myself - I slowly moved my lips across hers, and, without any urging on my part, she opened her mouth to me.

Time stood still, and so did we. It was every fucking clichéd romantic movie ever written and, thankfully, when the last notes faded away, I came to my senses – a little. I pulled back to see the effect on her. Abject fear widened her eyes. She gulped, and suddenly the game we'd been playing all evening wasn't just a game any more.

Ziva looked toward Gibbs, of course, and then managed to finish shattering the mood. "Come on. Everyone is leaving."


	7. Chapter 6

Tony and Ziva came up to our table as everyone was putting on their coats, and Ziva asked, her voice sounding oddly husky, "Where is everyone going?"

Since Gibbs wouldn't even look at her, and no one else seemed to know what to say, I finally spoke up. "The party's breaking up, I think. Gibbs is heading back to his house. Ducky's heading home, and McGee, Gavriela and I have decided to go on to another club. You guys want to join us?"

I was pretty sure we all knew the answer to that question - uh, no, thank you very much, but we're going to be boffing like bunnies as soon as we can find the appropriately horizontal surface - but figured I should at least be polite enough to go through the motions.

"Oh..." Ziva bit her lower lip, as if she wasn't quite sure of what to say or do next.

I saw Tony shake himself, like he was finally waking up from a dream, or a nightmare, and then saw him look curiously, first, at Gavriela, and then at McGee, and finally me. My glare had enough heat in it to deflect any uncomfortable questions or snarky comments from him, at least for the moment. I'm sure I'll hear from the peanut gallery later.

"Well, Ziva?" I could hear the caress in Tony's voice. I don't know what Ziva's game was, but after a brief glance at Gibbs, and then at her partner, her face hardened with resolve.

"Would you mind driving me back home, Tony?" Her voice was like molten honey, and it was interesting to watch the emotions play across Tony's face. I think if Gibbs had said something to either one of them at that moment, one or both of just might have called the game off. But he didn't say a word, and when Tony possessively placed his hand on the small of Ziva's back, she didn't flinch away from his touch.

"Sure."

Ducky and Jimmy took the lead out the door, Gibbs a close second; McGee started after them, but then he waited and took Gavriela's arm in his. Tony and Ziva followed, and I brought up the rear. I realized that I was stuck with what was left of the check, but I suspect I got off easy, with all of the pointed glances and glares being thrown around.

I was just exiting the door, to see that everybody was still milling around on the sidewalk in front of the club. All but Ziva and Tony, who are already halfway down the block towards his Mustang, the NCIS agents acting as Ziva's bodyguards already getting in their vehicle.

Gavriela turned from McGee towards me with a smile and started to say something, when I heard a startled shout tear the air.

"Gun! Get down!"


	8. Chapter 7

I am so tired I can barely see. I sit on the orange plastic hospital chair and realize that it feels as if my ass has fused with it over the past hours. There is no real reason why I should not go... not home, but what passes for home right now. But I continue to sit here, unable to move.

Memories flash through my mind, threatening to overwhelm me.

We had been walking toward the blue Mustang, and towards destiny, perhaps, when I felt his body tense.

"Gun! Get down!"

The rough concrete sidewalk bit into my knees, as his body protectively covered mine. His gun almost caressed my face as he jumped up. I heard gunshots, both in the distance and deafeningly near. Then silence.

The van turned down an alley, shattered windows throwing glass fragments like shooting stars. I can't imagine having anyone else with me in a situation like this. He never fails to amaze me; he's right there with me, standing and surveying our best options. A door slides open, and a lifeless body is ejected, to lie unmoving on the sidewalk.

The rest of what Tony yelled was lost in the sound of squealing tires and a hail of bullets. I saw Gibbs knock Ducky and Gavriela down. Screams and yells and gunshots filled the cool night air.

And as quickly as it had started, it all stopped.

He pulled me up roughly, and pressed his cell phone into my hands, before running to check on our new guest. He shakes his head, indicating the futility of any life-saving measures, then jogs back to the dance club. He knew I was safe, and, as always, he trusted me to do what needed to be done. I called 911, gave my name and position, and then gave the address of the shooting. The whole time I was talking, I slowly walked back to the group in front of the club.

My knees were shaking with relief and adrenaline when Gibbs suddenly stood up, helping Gavriela to her feet. People were starting to come out of the dance club, and I wonfered why I did not see anyone else from our party standing. Then, as I moved past the last parked car, I could see, and my heart fell. Ducky and McGee are working on Abby, while Tony is kneeling next to Jimmy.

Abby... They put out a call for her blood type almost immediately. So many from NCIS have come in and donated blood. I'm not the same type as Abby, but we've all been down on the table, making a donation.

I don't remember at what point he gave me his coat. I absently pick at a spot on the front of it, until I remember it's most likely Jimmy's blood.

The ambulance arrived within minutes. I lost track of the number of police cars, not to mention FBI and NCIS agents and vehicles. The rest of us stood together and watched the medics and Ducky work on Abby. Abby looked bad. Gibbs looked worse - he'd taken this attack as a personal affront. Jimmy's wound was a slight one - he'd lost blood, but a few stitches would set him to rights again.

I am damming tears - of fear and anger both - and, as I often do, I automatically turn to Tony for comfort. He'd been giving me a hug, when Fornell showed up and asked, "Which one of you killed the bastard?"

Gibbs and I looked over at Tony, who shrugged. "I did, Fornell. But the others in the van got away."

The ding of the elevator in the waiting room recalls my mind back to the present.

"Ziva, why don't you let me have one of the agents take you home? Dornegat's downstairs." Tony's standing in front of me, and I look up at him, too tired to keep the hard-edge of anger from my voice.

"No."

"No?"

There's irritation and aggravation in his voice, too. Tough shit. DiNozzo. Abby is still on the operating table. Her brother, Kyle, just went downstairs for a cup of coffee and a change of scene, and I promised him that I would wait here.

"No," I repeat. I guess he must see something in my face that makes arguing with me pointless. Good. He turns away and I hear him talking quietly to Gavriela and McGee.

Phoenix-like in his rebirth, the awkward self-centered man-child I have worked side-by-side with for the past eight years, who once talked endlessly without saying anything at all, has somehow been magically replaced by this intense, caring adult. His new self, having slowly shed the sadness and hurt that had once pervaded his very being and made him conceal his true nature, now displays for me a new sweetness and devastating gentleness, lying just beneath his strength.

And because he has tolerated, even luxuriated in his role as the focus of my rage, I continue to act as if it has become my right to do so.

Over the past year, the man has been relentless in his subtle chipping away at my defenses, in his attempts to get under my skin, in his ability to burrow into what passes for my heart. Like most men, he thinks it is the grand, sweeping gestures that are the most devastating, when it is the quiet, and the subtle that are the most fatal weapons in his armory against the walls around my heart.

Those weapons of my destruction include his comfort, his support, his understanding, and his kindness - dare I say, his love? - offered to me, over and over again, without any hope of recompense. And each time they have been offered, I have felt my defenses weaken further.

Each time he has managed to breach one of my defenses, I have rebuilt my walls, higher and stronger and angrier, even more determined to keep him on the outside. It is the only way to protect myself. It is, perhaps, the only way to protect him, too. My history shows that every time I have let someone in, they have been taken from me - Tali, Ari, Michael... I do not know if I would survive the loss of *this* man from my life. I justify my actions by telling myself that in protecting him, I protect myself.

And I have thrown all of this protection away, because I let my anger at Gibbs and Bodner and my father and a thousand other things get the best of me.

Now I must find a way to mend things.


	9. Intermezzo 02

Must I do everything myself? Apparently so, as the idiots I have hired to assist me seem to be incapable of doing anything correctly.

I will have to alter my plans, as a further attempt at shooting would leave me vulnerable to detection. I will have to be patient, as well - I believe that the silver-haired one will temporarily remove my target from my sphere of influence, in the attempt to guard her life and her affections.

But she will b back eventually. And in the meantime, I will try to enjoy the one I have chosen as my diversion, if I can recapture his attention.


	10. Chapter 8

Could this night get any worse?

Abby's currently in surgery, and her wounds are pretty severe. Ducky thinks that she'll be lucky to not lose a kidney, and most likely her spleen, the way the bullet ricocheted off of her ribs and pelvic bones.

Palmer was luckier; the bullet that hit him in the thigh did do any major damage, even though he'll be facing some rehab time. At least Breena will get to keep her husband.

All of us have already donated blood, even though most of us aren't direct matches to either one of our colleagues.

I've drunk countless cups of bad hospital coffee, waiting for the surgeon to come out and talk to us. While I've waited, I've planned innumerable new ways to punish David and DiNozzo for their antics earlier tonight.

I might need to ramp up my headslaps into breaking noses. I have no idea in hell what kind of grab-ass game those two idiot agents of mine thought they were playing. Although, to be fair, most of the blame can be placed right on Ziva's shoulders tonight. For a change. I would have thought that she, at least, would know that this is not the time to let her hormones get in the way of doing her job. Not to mention saving her own life.

She's normally the more controlled of the pair, although she does have a temper. I guess she let her anger with me, and frustration at the situation, warp her judgment.

All night at the hospital, I've watched the two of them stay as far away from each other as possible. I'm hoping we'll get lucky, and NCIS HQ will get a request for a temporary Agent Afloat, preferably in Iceland. Or Australia. I wonder which one of them would jump at the chance to get away for a couple of weeks? From the guilt-striken look on Ziva's face, it will be her. I've never seen her with such a panicked look on her face before. Honestly, it might be the best way to keep her safe, until that crazy Bodner's been taken care of.

Speaking of crazy Israeli's... Gavriela Adel, has been calm, helpful, considerate, and annoying as hell; she hasn't let McGee out of her sight all evening, if she could help it.

I can't quite figure out the attraction there, at least on her side. Tim's a nice enough guy, but certainly no ladies' man, or GQ cover model, unlike DiNozzo. But for some reason, Gavriela and DiNozzo have never really clicked, even though I know he's used her as an intel resource enough times in the past. And probably not coincidentally, Ziva has always seemed to cordially hate her guts every time DiNozzo has needed to contact her.

Gavriela and DiNozzo, however, were the only two witnesses of the shooters and to get a good look at the van. McGee had been turned towards Gavriela when everything went down, and most of the rest of us were still adjusting to the change in light to see anything clearly. Ziva had been in such a weird mood by then that she'd been walking with her eyes fixed on the ground in front of her, instead of paying attention to her surroundings. Luckily, DiNozzo not only saw the van, he was able to take out one of the shooters. Gavriela and he have both given statements to the FBI and Metro PD, for all the good they'll do. And like everyone else who'd been at the club, they're still here at the hospital, awaiting news on Abby.

"Timmy, I should go and change my clothes. Would you like me to do anything for you?"

I look up at the sound of Gavriela's sweet sultry voice and fight the impulse to puke. McGee's got that same goofy look on his face he gets every time he meets the most recent love of his life. I briefly wonder why the hell doesn't he look at Abby that way any more. I know they broke up years ago, but they both seem to still have a thing for each other.

"Uhm... no... nothing that I can think of... but thanks... you know... for asking."

Sheesh. I look away, and wish I could stop hearing, too. I don't have to see or hear to know that she kissed him on the cheek. "I'll be back in a couple of hours, yes?"

What is it about these Israeli women and my male Field Agents?


	11. Chapter 9

Like Gibbs, I don't believe in coincidences - the shooting had to be orchestrated by The Cougar. Who else could it be?

I wish to hell it was just another drive by shooting - that would make this a whole lot easier. In Tel Aviv or Jerusalem, it might have been. Especially since the shooter I took out was an Arab dry cleaner, who'd lived in this country for almost fifteen years. Was he somebody's sleeper agent, or just a gun for hire? It's going to take weeks to track down every last detail of this guy's life. And we're going to have to put agents in the Middle East on the trail to check him out on that end, too.

I'm exhausted, but I can't turn my brain off. I keep going over what we know about The Cougar. I keep trying to forget what it felt like to finally, after all these years, really kiss Ziva, and have her kiss me back. I remember the feeling of taking down the shooter, and the chaos that followed. Eventually, I drift off to an uneasy sleep.

The sound of a whimper awakens me immediately. I sit up in the bed that I haven't gotten to sleep in for more than ninety minutes in the past thirty-six hours and strain to make out the sound. For a second, I'm not even sure if that sound came from Ziva's bedroom, or from my dream. When you get right down to it, it's hard to distinguish one whimper from another.

Running one hand through my hair, I glare at the readout on the alarm clock. Three-thirty in the morning is not my favorite time to be awakened, dream or otherwise.

Damn it! There it is again. That's definitely a whimper. I slide to the edge of the bed and stand. I should just let her deal with her nightmares by herself, but, if she gets too loud, it'll bring the guards in from the front of the house, and that would embarrass the shit out of her. I'm still not completely sure she's forgiven me for seeing her having a nightmare after her father died, and I've known her for eight years.

Jesus, the past thirty-six hours have been a nightmare of another kind.

Gibbs really looked like he wanted to re-break my nose last night - or spank some sense into Ziva.

It hasn't been the best day any of us have ever seen, by any means, but I still don't regreat breaking Ziva out of our little Gibbs-imposed prison for a few hours. Even if she isn't really speaking to me right now. And even if the night isn't going to end the way I thought it might, a lifetime ago.

After Gibbs finally sent McGee home last night, trailing Gavvy along with him, we stood in the ICU wing and all glared at each other for about five minutes. Finally, we turned our attention to Abby. Gibbs had talked to the doctor, so he had the most recent update on her condition.

"How's she doing?" I asked.

"About the same as she was two hours ago, DiNozzo." Gibbs sounded tired, which is unusual. But then again, why wouldn't he? "They don't think she'll needs a transplant."

"What are her chances?" Ziva asked.

"If there aren't any further complications, about eighty percent," he gritted out.

I watched as Ziva tentatively reached out and touched his hand, and felt that a sudden jealous twinge at the thought that she could offer Gibbs comfort, but not me. He shakes off her hand, and turns away from her, his back stiff with anger and irritation.

I move away from the two of them, a little closer to the nurses station, but where I can still keep an eye on Abby in the Surgical ICU unit. She looks pale, but stronger than she did four hours ago. I just stand there watching her, trying not to think about anything, until I hear their angry whispers coming down the hall.

Shit, this is so not good. I don't really think Gibbs will actually write her up or anything, but I don't want to hear about it from her all the way back to the safe house, either.

"No, Gibbs! It will not be necessary for you to escort me back to the safe house. I know my duty, and what my priorities are supposed to be! I'll have a report for you by afternoon."

Gibbs was just getting wound up, though. "If you'd stayed at the safe house where I'd ordered you to, in the first place, you'd wouldn't have needed to write a damned report, David!"

Okay, that was just out of line. Next thing you know, he'll blame everything that happened last night on Ziva, too - just what she needs with her tendency towards self-flagellation.

"Jesus Christ! Would the two of you just knock it off." I'm willing to take the body blow from Gibbs, if necessary, just to shut the two of them up. "Look, Boss, I'm tired. You're tired. I wouldn't dream of speaking for Super Special Agent David here, but there's no reason why she shouldn't be tired, too. There was no reason to believe that we were followed yesterday; there weren't any even any coincidental maybes. The only way - the *only* way - The Cougar could have trailed us to the club, is if there's a leak. If you want to write Ziva up for visiting a friend at the hospital, then go ahead and do it. But I'm going back to the safe house and sleep. Unless you really want to make the trek out there and back with Ziva, when we all know you'd rather be here with Abby, then we're both out of here."

I may have over-played my hand with that last remark. Evidently, Ziva figured I did, too. I'm just surprised how she reacted, given that she hasn't wanted to speak to me all night.

Stepping right in between us, she firmly states, "I will have the report finished and on your desk by noon, tomorrow. I will email it to McGee." We could both hear the exhaustion in her voice, but her back remained ramrod straight, and I could see she was returning his hard angry stare with one of her own ninja death glares.

"You do that, Agent David. I trust that there will be no further little excursions needed?" Gibbs couldn't stop himself from tacking on.

"I will do what needs to be done, Gibbs - so I make no promises. Permission to leave?" She certainly stood her ground, and I just stand and watch as Gibbs finally relents.

"Good night, David."

Oh, yeah. The ride back to the safe house was lots of fun. The only thing making any sound on that ride was the Mustang's engine. Once we got there, Ziva nodded to the guards, then walked quickly through the living room and up the stairs to her bedroom, as if I didn't even exist. That whimper that woke me up was the only sound I'd heard from her since we'd left the hospital.

I pause outside her bedroom door and try to figure out what to do next. The whimper has turned into a low moan. And definitely not the kind of moan I want to hear from her lips.

"No, please, don't," I clearly hear, as I slowly turn the doorknob and crack the door. It's actually been a fairly pleasant spring for the Eastern Seaboard, and she has cracked the window in her room. The last of the moonlight barely reaches her, but the sight males my heart stop. I've always known that Ziva David is a beautiful woman. But let's be honest here, I've bedded a lot of beautiful women in my day. But there's always been a certain quality about this particular woman, though. A quality that I refuse to examine too closely. Hell, a quality that I've never really been given an opportunity to examine too closely, if you want to get right down to it.

It could be every damned romantic 'B' movie cliché - I go to the bed, sit next to her, rousing her gently, she falls into my arms, we make wild, passionate love, and... knowing her, tomorrow morning, she wouldn't be able to stand to be in the same room with me. Not on your life.

"Ziva." I flip on the light switch. "Ziva, wake up."


End file.
